I was supposed to go for a hike today. It’s been weeks. But I let the rabbit out this morning to clean his cage, and it’s a warm sunny day, and I just can’t bring myself to make him come back in, he’s enjoying it so.
I work in the garden instead, pruning and clearing. We plan to turn Zeke’s lawn into an herb garden, and I started shaping a huge rosemary wth that in mind. I planted it four years ago as a little sprig. This morning it was five feet high and five broad. I pruned it up into small tree shape to make room beneath for new plants. I laid the long rosemary branches as a bower on Zeke’s grave.
It is difficult to work out there with him, without him. But the weeds are taller than they should be, and the rabbit little help. This much I can say: I have less impediment to using the fire pit. Zeke always hated the popping sound of firewood. Tonight I’ll make a little fire of rosemary and grapevine.
The key is to act as though I think going on matters hoping that I will, at some point, start to believe me.
We went to a group session the other night, counseling for people who are grieving their pets, and came away with our sense of gratitude reconfirmed. He lived so long, and went so easily and in love. He did not howl in pain at the ministrations of callous vets, or sit outside all night with pneumonia while we argued with the parents who would not let him in. We have the privilege of pure grief without guilt.
Our good fortune is just staggering in its joyousness.
The weeds are tall and I must go pull more of them. It is odd to be able to reach into a clump of weeds without fear of dog shit, to sit outside near the lawn he killed with his piss and smell only the oak’s sun-warmed leaves, the scent of rosemary on my leather gloves.
The key is to act as though I think going on matters hoping that I will, at some point, start to believe me.
There you have the nuts and bolts of grieving. And you will, at some point, believe you. Matter of time.
My grief left me dogless for ten years. In restrospect, I think it was excessive, because I’ll never go that long without a canine bud again. We each take the time we need. You take yours.
I love your writing about him. He brings out your gentleness.
Sheila
I had already copied the same sentence that Sheila quoted above before I saw that she had.
I’m not at that point after the loss I’ve had that you know about, Chris—not at the point that I particularly feel that going on matters for me. But I *am* at the point where I know that my going on matters for others, and that will do for now.
Maybe a new baseball season will do it for me. Something will, I’m sure, and for you too, I hope.
Following up on smott’s “... a wish for good fortune, that the circle of life occur in its most natural order”:
A college classmate of mine, who lost an adult son not too long ago, wrote this in an e-mail to me recently:
“Traditionally, Jews do not name their children after themselves or after living relatives (what is common is to take the first letter of, say a grandparent’s name; then use it as the start for the child’s name). It is based on the folklore fear that the Angel of Death will pick the wrong (younger) person. The batting out of order thing. And that is exactly how I feel.”
The “batting out of order thing” may be why we are sometimes more stricken by the loss of an elderly animal companion (like Zeke) than we are by the loss of an elderly parent or grandparent. The blessing of a good dog (or cat) is that it can become the vessel for the kind of love we feel for a child.
The curse is the same as the blessing, combined with a life expectancy that’s only about a fifth of our own.
Good pets *will* bat out of order, and we will feel crushed, guilty, resentful, angry, empty… and alone. The better the dog (or, especially, child), the less likely it is that another will re-illuminate the darkness.
Ultimately, you pay for what you get. Unconditional grief is a reasonable price for unconditional love.
Who’s not working? I’ve got work out the ears.
But we will call ya.
I have a saying: “Hard work heals a hurting heart”
“I was supposed to go hiking today”
According to whom? There’s a phrase used by Appalachian Trail hikers who are worried about burnout:
The mountain isn’t going anywhere.
The red walls and sandstone canyons of the Colorado Plateau have been sitting there for between 100 and 400 million years. The individual grains of sand from which they are comprised are over one billion years old. They have time to wait, to let you grieve. Flowering plants, which include the species you call weeds, had not even evolved yet when most of the Southwest sandstones were compressed into rock. They’re in no hurry. You have all the time in the world.